


Bedtime

by DestinedForJohnlock



Series: DFJ fills prompts [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Prompt Fill, Sleepy Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-13
Updated: 2013-12-13
Packaged: 2018-01-04 12:53:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1081246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DestinedForJohnlock/pseuds/DestinedForJohnlock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a case, Sherlock and John leave the flat in its state of distress and worry about cleanup after a decent night’s (or day’s) sleep. John usually showers and crawls into bed. Sherlock usually collapses on the nearest surface without bothering to undress. So it’s no surprise when John steps out of the shower, feeling groggy and fuzzy as it is, to find Sherlock sprawled out on their coffee table, having pushed files and pictures off onto the floor and used his scarf as some sort of makeshift pillow, head lolled to the side with one leg perched on the couch he really ought to have been on in the first place while the other twitches and he grumbles something incoherent before stilling again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bedtime

**Author's Note:**

> 6:30 AM all-nighter prompt fill for [QueerSherlockian](http://queersherlockian.tumblr.com) who asked: "How about sleep deprived Sherly and John carrying him to bed?"

Any case ranked higher than an 8 usually means several days’ worth of takeout left in the fridge, pictures and newspaper clippings scattered about and tacked up on the wall, and several dirty cups in the sink stained with the coffee and tea that kept John and Sherlock awake. Nagging Sherlock to rest during a case proved fruitless several months into their arrangement, so John has since given up and pays extra mind to Sherlock’s mood swings and generally keeps his mouth shut while the detective rails off his deductions over toast he’d usually ignore. But when cases end, silence settles once again in 221b, silence Mrs. Hudson is all too happy to have since the back and forth footsteps on the creaky floorboards overhead and muffled exclamations of epiphanies would otherwise keep her awake well into the night.

Sherlock and John leave the flat in its state of distress and worry about cleanup after a decent night’s (or day’s) sleep. John usually showers and crawls into bed. Sherlock usually collapses on the nearest surface without bothering to undress. So it’s no surprise when John steps out of the shower, feeling groggy and fuzzy as it is, to find Sherlock sprawled out on their coffee table, having pushed files and pictures off onto the floor and used his scarf as some sort of makeshift pillow, head lolled to the side with one leg perched on the couch he really ought to have been on in the first place while the other twitches and he grumbles something incoherent before stilling again. And really, John shouldn’t find it as funny as he does, he should roll his eyes and leave Sherlock to his own devices. God forbid it’s for some experiment of his to see how well he recovers from several days of little sleep or food and constant stimulation. But damnit, Sherlock had been complaining about the aches and pains of growing older not two weeks before and fuck if John will deal with a cranky _and_ sore Sherlock. Again.

It isn’t the first time John’s gone out of his way to do something unconventional for Sherlock, but moving into Baker Street had thrown a wrench in all things conventional anyway. Waking him up to tell him to move on his own would end disastrously, likely result in a few biting comments and general disregard for his own health. Leaving him isn’t an option. And John isn’t about to toss a blanket over him and fluff his scarf and call it a night, either. So he resigns himself to his fate and steps over the mess, looks over Sherlock (who managed to leave his coat hanging by the door, at least) and tucks one arm beneath Sherlock’s shoulders, the other (of his own bad shoulder) hooked beneath his legs. While thin, Sherlock isn’t exactly light. He’s lithe, full of lean muscle from all the running around he does, but he’s easy enough to hold. One of Sherlock’s arms falls to hang by his side and his head hangs with curls falling every which way. He makes some noise and a vague, limp gesture with the arm tucked between himself and John, but dozes back off, probably completely unaware of his predicament.

John makes it a quick move, carefully walking past their kitchen table and through the doorway, down the hall to Sherlock’s bedroom. He’s been in it before, and for whatever reason it’s meticulously clean compared to the rest of the flat, save for a couple of outfits left lying in a pile from the week’s neglect for laundry (another to-do for the next day). His bed’s even made, probably not touched for the past few days. By the time he sets Sherlock down, Sherlock’s partially awake,  vaguely aware of the change. His voice is rough when he speaks. “Wha’timesit?”

“Bedtime,” John replies, making work of Sherlock’s shoes to set at the foot of the bed. Sherlock huffs what could very well be genuine amusement or irritation (John will assume the former) and sits up long enough to unbutton and remove his jacket. His hair falls haphazardly over his face, something John can’t help but stare at for a brief moment. The way the moonlight coming through Sherlock’s window adds a certain depth to his angular features that John never has the opportunity to take in. Sometimes Sherlock seems so ethereal, John’s afraid he’ll blink and realize he’s waking up from some long, wonderful dream to return to the dull reality that was his life prior to meeting Sherlock.

He must’ve been staring a bit longer than he expected, because he’s suddenly hyperaware of the bright eyes critically staring back at him. “’Sthere a problem, John?” At least he’s still slurring, still sleepy. John purses his lips and shakes his head, standing as Sherlock settles back into his pillows temporarily pacified with the answer. John draws the blanket up and around Sherlock and begins to leave, stopping just before Sherlock’s out of sight to look just one last time for the evening, and he convinces himself it’s to make sure everything’s in order to avoid any unnecessary confrontation about god knows what in the morning and _not_ because he’s mesmerized by the detective’s irrational zeal for solving puzzling crimes or his ridiculous habits for the sake of the cases he takes on or the way his sheet conforms to the subtle curve of his body.

He swears he sees Sherlock smirk before quickly dismissing himself, gently clicking the door shut behind him and all but jogging back up to his room where he too crashes for what’s bound to be a long, hard sleep.


End file.
